


Holding Back; Letting Go

by borrowedphrases



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Keith Week 2016, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8145424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases
Summary: A moment with Shiro, a moment without Shiro.(Can be read as romantic or platonic.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [keith-week](http://keith-week.tumblr.com/) Day 1: Galaxy Garrison

Keith spreads his hands out behind him, palms flat against the heated concrete and fingers splayed wide. Soon the roof will cool down as night takes hold, but right now, as the sun begins its decent beyond the ruddy horizon, it's still radiating heat from the day. Keith has his jacket unzipped and tied about his waist, too warm still from the lingering day. He draws in a slow breath, eyes closed, and leans back more on his hands as he exhales evenly.

"Thought I'd find you up here." A warm familiar voice calls from behind him, near the door that leads back into the Garrison. Keith doesn't have to look to know exactly who it is, he'd know that voice anywhere, in any condition.

A strong body settles down beside him, a steady hand coming to rest just the tips of its fingers over his. Keith smiles, his eyes still closed, and wiggles his fingers sightly beneath that light touch.

"That's not regulation," Shiro scolds gentle, though there's no real authority in his voice. "And don't you have class right now?"

"Just a study period." Keith peaks one eye open, glancing sidelong at Shiro, a smirk threatening to spread over his lips. "And my jacket's only a violation if someone rats me out."

Shiro gives a soft hum and a thoughtful little nod as he turns his face to the sunset. "Better not let any other junior officers catch you then, Cadet."

"I'll be careful." Keith would look back toward the sunset, watch the sun disappear in quiet comfort with Shiro beside him, but he can't pull his eyes away from Shiro's face. Bathed in a warm orange glow, his strong jawline accented by the shadows the sunlight casts below his chin and along the sides of his neck. There's just the faintest hint of early evening stubble on his cheeks - Keith is still amazed that Shiro doesn't shave twice a day, just to keep regulation - and over his upper lip, a faint dusting that Keith wants to reach out and touch, feel the textured prickle against his fingerprints.

"You did really well in the Sim today." Shiro doesn't turn his head away from the sunset, and Keith is glad for that. This way Shiro can't see the way the edges of Keith's ears flush from the praise. "But I thought you said you were going to break my record, not tie with it?"

Keith shifts, finally pulling his gaze away from Shiro and focusing it back out over the desert landscape. He leans forward, drawing his legs up close to his chest, and loops his arms around his thighs, hands slotted up against the backs of his knees. "Yeah, well."

"You could have, you know." Shiro's eyes are on him, Keith knows with having to look; he can feel it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up with his goosebumps. He needs another haircut already, the damn undercut never staying short for very long with the rate his hair grows. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't understand how to explain what happened today, not even when Shiro's hand comes to rest over those very same goosebumps that are tickling across his nape.

"Why did you hold back?" Shiro's voice is soft, gentle and curious, and there's a note of concern underneath it all that makes Keith's stomach twist up in a lark's head knot. "You hesitated at the end there when you didn't need to, there was no reason to. You've never hesitated like that before on a landing."

Keith gives a little shrug, pulling his legs more solidly against his chest and bending his knees more sharply, squashing his hands between his calves and his thighs. For a moment Keith feels Shiro's touch lessen on his neck, like he's going to pull his hand away. He seems to think better of it though, instead sliding his hand up along the back of Keith's hair, fingers threading in the longer hair of his crown.

"You can talk to me." Shiro whispers, like they're being listening in on. They're not, Keith would know if someone else had come to the roof, if only just because Shiro would have pulled his hand away.

"I know." Keith mumbles into his knees. He can feel the flush from his ears spreading inward, moving toward his cheeks. He knows he messed up - though when you compare his performance to that of the other fighter pilots, he really hadn't messed up at all. He was good. Real good, the best cadet the Garrison had seen since Shiro advanced to junior officer. Still, he messed up, he didn't give it his all, didn't do his best. He _knows_ this because he did it on purpose.

Silence passes between them, Shiro's hand sliding back down along Keith's neck, and then out across his shoulders. The weight of Shiro's arm there is pleasant, steady and strong, as is his grip on his shoulder. Keith wiggles a little across the roof, shifting closer to Shiro until he's pressed against his side, tucked up nestled in against him. The sun is just a small line now atop the horizon, glowing red and making the desert shimmer slightly in its fading light. Shadows of rocks and twisted trees and Garrison vehicles stretch out long and distorted across the copper earth. A chill is creeping in as the sun fades, the cold of the desert night rolling in fast. Keith is glad for Shiro's warm body beside him, glad for that strong arm draped comfortably over his shoulders. 

"You don't have to tell me." Shiro speaks again once the sun has passed beyond the horizon, just a faint lingering glow still reaching upwards, the sky going from red to purple. Keith feels the press of dry, smooth lips against his forehead, lingering there, warm as the late summer sun. "I think I understand."

Keith turns his head toward Shiro, nestling in even closer, his head tucked up beneath Shiro's chin. This is what he loves best about Shiro. Not having to explain every little thing. Shiro just _understanding_ him like no one else. 

 

Keith storms out of the Sim, his shoulders shaking, hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white and his fingers are starting to tingle. His team mates file into attention behind him, but Keith steps right up into the instructor's face, his voice more a roar than a shout. "What the hell was that!?"

"You're out of line, Cadet." Iverson starts jotting something down on his datatab, his one good eye fixed on Keith. "And that was by far the worst failure of a simulation I have ever been witness to in all my years at Galaxy Garrison. Would you care to explain yourself, or should I have your classmates point out your incompetence?"

"No, _you're_ out of line." Keith grabs the datatab from Iverson's hands and flinging it into the crowd of gathered cadets waiting their turn in the Sim. It narrowly misses a student, the large engineer stepping out of the way before it smacks into his shin. The clatter on the floor is only mildly satisfying; Keith wishes it had shattered. "That simulation was bull _shit_ and you know it! A Kerberos rescue mission? Seriously? You won't even send a probe out there, let alone a manned rescue!"

Keith can feel all eyes on him as he postures and fumes, drawing himself up to his full height so he can glare right in Iverson's face. "You left those men out there to _die_. You left _Shiro_ out there to die, and you think it's okay to rub a rescue simulation in everyone's face?"

"Stand _down_ , Cadet." Iverson's eye twitches, his lips pressed into a thin line. Keith can feel his teammates shift behind him, shuffling their feet in awkward silence. He has no idea who they agree with, who is making them more uncomfortable right now. He doesn't really care either. They can keep their composure, keep to their regulations, keep believing the lies the Garrison is feeding everyone, even the _families_ of those lost on a cold, dead moon at the edge of the Sol System. 

One of the other cadets retrieves the datatab, shuffling nervously over and handing it off to the instructor. Iverson taps at it fiercely, calls up a menu that's tinted red on the screen. "I'm scheduling you a disciplinary hearing at eighteen hundred hours; you'll be lucky to land yourself a cargo pilot position after this, _Cadet_ , and if I have my way, you'll be gathering your things and walking out of here tomorrow." 

"Don't even bother." Keith nearly spits in Iverson's face, his hands fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, the tremble of the rage coursing through him making his hands shake violently. He almost tears the slider of the zipper off when he finally manages to yank it down, and then the jacket is off his arms and being tossed at Iverson's feet as quickly as he snatched the datatab from his instructor's hands. "I'm done. I'm out. I quit. _Sir_."

Keith doesn't wait for a response before he's shoving his way through the crowd of nervous cadets. The ones in the back stepping out of his path after he nearly knocks a few of the smaller ones at the front over. No one moves to stop him as he leaves the Sim room, not his teammates, not the cadets, not even the junior officers positioned at the door - one of them Shiro's former roommate, and that just makes Keith's blood boil even hotter - none of them understand.

Shiro's old hoverbike roars to life beneath him once he's gathered his things - and the few items of Shiro's that had been left with him - in a small pack. No one tried to stop him as he stormed through the halls to the hangar, people barely even looked as him, as if glancing his way would mark them as sympathizers, mark them also as students with 'discipline issues'.

The thrum of the bike between his thighs is comforting, loosening the knot of rage in his chest slightly as he kicks it into gear and tears out of the hanger. The wind tangles his uneven, grown-our hair, makes his old jacket flap against him like leathery wings as he tears out into the desert. Unzipped. _Un-regulation_. Free.

The sun it starting to set as the Garrison grows smaller behind him, becomes tiny and insignificant amongst the rocks and cliffs, the wide expanse of barren earth opening up before him as the red glow of the sunset makes the shadows grow long and twisted across the copper sands. His heart beats a staccato in his chest, his hands grip the controls like a lifeline. This isn't the same as a jet or a shuttle, or even the Sim. He can't get very high off the ground, can't even pretend to reach for the stars that begin to spread out above him as the sky turns slowly from purple to navy. 

When the last whisper of glowing light from the sun has faded from the horizon and Keith's arms ache from the strain of piloting the hoverbike with such tension in him, he eases the bike into a gradual stop. Leaving it idle in the moon-cast shadow of a cliff face. Keith slides out of the seat, practically melting into the dirt as his body finally crashes. Adrenalin spent, rage faded, exhaustion settling it. 

Keith leans back against the side of the hoverbike, breathing hard and uneven, his lungs raspy and throat dry. He starts to shake, a full body tremble, and all he can do is draw his legs in against his chest, squash his hands between his thighs and calves, and bury his face against his knees as sobs finally overwhelm him.

No hand on the nape of his neck, no arm draped across his shoulders, no dry smooth lips against his forehead. Just Keith, alone in the desert, grieving.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://borrowedphrases.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/borrowedphrases)


End file.
